


Till Human Voices Wake Us And We Drown

by SharpestScalpel



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Charles is a seal, Erik is a hermit, Folklore, Happy Ending, M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestScalpel/pseuds/SharpestScalpel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a selkie. Erik finds his pelt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed and is not yet complete. I'm working on it, y'all. I was anon, but the threading got a little complicated and I wanted to keep it all in one place.
> 
> From a kink meme prompt: http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=5725023#t5725023
> 
>  _So a wonderful author!anon posted some delicious porn this afternoon a few comments back (http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/5215.html?thread=5720671#t5720671)_
> 
>  _and I was especially struck by this phrase:_
> 
>  _"...pull Charles from the water like a captured selkie, pelt hidden away for safekeeping so that the man had to do his bidding."_
> 
>  _So now I want this story. I don't need the whole fairy tale build up, or even the ending, we all know how that goes. I just want the bit in the middle where Erik has Charles' pelt and will only return it to him if Charles has sex with him, Charles agrees, cue the smoking hot pr0n._
> 
>  _BONUS: Erik, a man of his word, returns the pelt after the sex, Charles leaves ... and it's Charles who a few days later shows back up at Erik's isolated cabin/traps Erik on a deserted island/pulls Erik into the water/etc. and there is more awesome sex._
> 
> The link in the prompt goes to We'll Go By Way of the Garden (Like Swimming for the Very First Time): http://archiveofourown.org/works/263353

Erik Lensherr found the selkie’s skin by accident. He often walked on the rocks, and he had found many things; he’d found his favorite thing, a bright piece of metal, polished like a mirror, no doubt debris from a ship that rested on the ocean’s floor. But that day, with the rain and the mist and the chill in the air, he found a new thing without looking for it. Erik found a pelt, soft under his curious fingers yet cool to the touch. No insulating undercoat.

The villagers – he did not consider himself one of them – said he was queer. They did not entirely mean it in the new way, in the fashion that meant he preferred to bed down with other men. They meant he was strange in their eyes, a loner and a misanthrope among people who thought they knew what it meant to value privacy.

All of that was true; it was true that Erik was strange, not quite at home. He felt more accustomed to the old stories than he did to the new ones on television or at the theater. Erik preferred books and did not trust anyone lightly. He minded the tides and kept his own council. And when he pulled the skin from between two rocks, Erik knew exactly what it was.

He took it home with him, kept the door propped open and lit a fire in the hearth though he rarely bothered with such luxury for himself. The chill felt like it was part of his bones, one of the things that kept him upright and walking. The warmth of the flames unbent him a little bit, just enough that when the dark and pale man appeared at his door when the sun had been down an hour, Erik’s smile was gentle, the curve of his mouth like a gull’s wing.

“You’re looking for your skin.” There really was no point in pretending – Erik had hidden the pelt, had locked it away in a trunk and strung the key on a chain around his own neck. He was not in love, but he was curious.

The selkie man stepped through the open door – skittish, with eyes constantly turning back toward the sea. He was naked, almost unconsciously so. His skin gleamed in the light cast by the fire and Erik’s lamps, white and unblemished, cooler than ivory; Erik was reminded of the fur that belonged to this man, sleek and with a promise of warmth that would always be broken. The man’s hair was long, past his shoulders. Dark curls that would, Erik thought, be soft to the touch when they were dry. He wanted to tangle his fingers in it, contribute to the mess of it. The selkie man had red lips, a generous mouth that was pursed in determined confusion. Blue eyes, blue like the sky itself had forgotten what rain was.

Erik gestured, as nonthreatening a wave as he could manage with all of his breath rebelling against his lungs and most of his blood pooling between his legs, indicated the other seat in front of the hearth.

“Can you talk? I admit, I didn’t consider you might not speak English.” It was Erik’s third language, learned at the feet of a man who had thought his first language was a language for dogs. Erik remembered both; English was not so elegant but it was useful.

The first sound was like the bark of a seal, sharp and high, painful at the back of the throat. But the selkie man inched inside, shook his wet head, and opened his mouth again. His voice was clear and bright, with a ragged edge like a broken shell. His vowels were slightly wrong, shifted and open. “Did you wish a maiden? A seal wife to bear your children?” Speaking seemed to calm him; his eyes settled on Erik.

It had been common in the legends: seal maidens captured to be beloved wives. Erik laughed a little and shook his head. “I would be a worse fisherman than I am if I could not tell the difference between a male and a female from such a whole skin.” Seal men had also shed their skins in the stories: to take as lovers any who were discontent.

A knowing light sparkled in those blue eyes – there was something old there, something laughing at Erik and his human wants. It made him uncomfortable; he was used to discomfort, though, and merely shifted in his seat.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been trapped ashore.” Seals were graceful in water; the man lacked that ease of motion even though his muscles shifted under his human skin the way they were supposed to, carried him with ease to stand between Erik’s knees, ignoring the offered distance of his own chair. “Others of your kind have called me Charles.” He was not at home on land.

There was a relief to it, to know that he was not the first to have done this; Erik was cruel only out of necessity. He did not fish for sport. “Charles. And I’m Erik.”

“And you have my skin, hidden safe away until I give you what you want.” It was not a question. Nor were the cool hands on Erik’s knees, pressing against them, parting them further, making more room for the supple body of the man who was a seal, who bent and settled onto the long bones of his calves there on the floor at Erik’s feet.

It seemed entirely too easy and so Erik did not trust it. But he was not able to give it away even so. “One night – and I’ll return your skin to you in the morning.” He wondered if he should be more specific. Even now, it seemed a low action to make a bargain based on misunderstanding. “One night in bed with me, where you’ll do my bidding.”

If he had met the man on the beach, instead of finding his skin, perhaps the outcome would have been the same: a mouth moving against his own, patient when Erik had to think for a moment, recall the proper slackness of jaw and firmness of tongue for kissing. Perhaps the outcome would have been the same: slim fingers pushing beneath fabric right where he sat in his chair; a voice that didn’t know how to laugh in the human way; a statement. “One night, here in front of the fire.”

His bed was too narrow anyway. Erik nodded.

It was nothing but a motion to lean closer, wrap his arms around Charles’s back to pull the other man into his lap. It was his agreement; it was his word. He never went back on a promise, but he would take what had been promised to him. His own skin itched as though he could take it off, be something else entirely underneath it, something that could rub and flex and slide against all the naked skin he wanted to taste.

Instead, because he had only one shape to his name, Erik bent his head and licked a stripe up the side of Charles’s neck, left his teeth and their hunger in his behind his lips until his nose brushed an earlobe. Then Erik nibbled, still gentle for the moment, as he considered the salt on his tongue, reflection and reminder of where Charles came from. Too much salt could make a man delirious.

Seals were hunters; Charles bit back, less gentle, with more intent. His human teeth were clever sharpness behind plush lips, worrying at the place where Erik’s neck met his shoulder. Erik gasped, surprised at the thrill of it after so long spent tending to his own needs. Their hands knocked against each other when Erik reached for his shirt hem; Charles grasped the fabric and pulled back just far enough to pull it over Erik’s head. Erik tensed.

The scars criss-crossing his chest were not beautiful. They marred the texture of his skin, dulled the nerves damaged in the earning of them. He'd been mocked for them before.

Charles studied them with his eyes that had grown too steady to avoid. "Is this why you are alone?"

It stung to hear it so plainly spoken, another everyday tragedy - but personal just the same. "One reason." But only one. Erik wasn't good with people.

The fluid shrug of Charles's shoulder was like a breaking wave; like the tide that pulled everything out to sea, he leaned down and put his mouth on Erik's human skin.

Erik arched up against the pressure of tongue that was rougher than he'd known to expect, found Charles's naked hips with his large hands so he could hold on to something. The draft from the open door warred with the heat of the flames in the hearth; it was cool sea water and Erik's own hot blood combining. He would feel guilty in the morning: for the moment, he would let himself have this.

Desperation made him rough; his fingers dug into firm flesh and held tight. Charles wedged his knees deeper into the chair on either side of Erik's hips and slid forward as far as he could, settled against the bulge of Erik's erection, undeniably present.

The weight in his lap kept Erik from flying into pieces everywhere. His fingers held Charles steady so he could press himself up, lift himself against the pressure holding him steady, grind against the sureness of it. He moaned into their kiss. "The first time will be fast."

Charles nodded. "Then we will make a slower second time." The selkie man's cock was half-hard, warmer than the skin of his thighs, which were smooth, hairless, but strong with muscle. He leaned back enough to let Erik trace his fingernails down the skin, see the red tracks that faded back to flesh in almost an instant. "Do you want me to suck you?"

The question alone could never actually be enough to bring him off, but Erik jerked to hear it, felt like it might almost be enough. He didn't trust his own voice; Erik nodded, didn't think it looked entirely frantic. He had to think, as he'd had to do with their first kiss, to remember how to unlock his fingers from their grip on Charles's legs so the selkie man could move from his perch. Charles paused a moment, placed a close-mouthed kiss against Erik's cheek, like a gesture of comfort.

Then he was slipping back to the floor, more graceful in this than he'd been taking the few steps Erik had witnessed. Maybe pleasure was the same both above and below the water's surface. Maybe it was the same for the birds, as well, the air just another medium to be crossed in order to touch. Erik considered feathers - but the thought fluttered away when Charles kissed his knee, trailed fingers up the insides of his thighs, and then skipped his hands up to work at Erik's belt. Erik bent his head to watch.

If he had truly been thinking, Erik half-laughed to himself, he'd have worn something easy, been prepared for this. Maybe he hadn't actually believed in it, even as he'd set himself to take the chance it was true. Charles opened the belt, then moved to work the buttons of his fly, one at a time, the backs of Charles's fingers teasing Erik's cock.

He hadn't let himself look at Charles's body beyond that first survey at the door, beyond glimpses he hadn't been able to help - he looked now, like Charles was the first and last thing he would ever see. Charles was fully hard, at least, flushed rosy but still so pale Charles almost seemed bloodless - Erik might be forcing the selkie man into laying with him, but Charles had been the one to say their second time should be slow; Erik could make this good for him, too.

The thighs he'd grasped were long, elegant as Charles moved and swayed at his task. The selkie man was lean but still soft - the promise of wiry muscle blunted under nourishing fat, like a seal's body. It wasn't a surprise. Erik was too thin, his skin dry with it. He was suddenly ashamed of his own spartan nature, his refusal to offer himself the care he wanted to take with this man.

He hitched up enough for Charles to tug at his pants and underwear, down his legs, over his bare feet, off completely. And then Erik stopped his senseless worry because Charles was looking at him, cataloging the scars and the angles, the prominence of his hip bones and the high arch of each foot.

"You do not eat enough." Charles neither smiled nor frowned. Seals offered their expressions in other ways.

"Are you going to bring me fish, leave them at my boat?" Erik's own smiles were rare, often involved too many teeth. But he meant this one, pleased at the chance to tease.

Those blue eyes were eloquent enough that words were not necessary. And then Erik didn't have any words left; Charles took the head of Erik's cock in his mouth.

He'd distracted himself with everything else - now it was all sensation. Erik touched himself most mornings, his own hand enough to relieve him when he woke up aching in his empty home. It was rote, a habit like brushing his teeth. Charles's mouth was nothing like it.

The roughness of the selkie man's tongue rasped somewhere between perfection and overstimulation as Charles backed off and licked his way down the shaft to nuzzle at the crease of Erik's thigh, urging him to spread his legs wider.

Resistance... he had no hope of it and no why for it. Erik watched the dark head dip lower, shuddered at the feel of fingers other than his own nudging at his sack, his asshole, teasing at his nerve endings until his muscles clenched. Erik rested his hands on the dark hair he'd wanted to touch since Charles had appeared at the door. But he was careful - not to grab, not to pull, not to hurt. Charles looked up from his task and held himself still until Erik moved his hands after all, threaded his fingers through the strands, let himself have what he wanted.

It was like Charles knew somehow, as though he could see into Erik's desires even when Erik himself turned away from them. With Erik's fingers trapped in damp hair like seaweed, Charles returned his attention to swallowing as much of Erik's cock as possible. Erik couldn't help the cry that forced its way out of his throat or the fisting of his hands; Charles only sucked harder, one finger now as threatening as it was teasing in its insistence. Suction against tightly drawn skin, no hint of teeth - but just the edge of pain as he rubbed against Charles's tongue.

The tip of Charles's finger, small and still so cool, breached tight muscle; Erik broke as well, his almost unwilling orgasm wrenched from him with such ease he fleetingly thought he might be shamed by it. Erik squeezed his eyes closed when he came, tried to memorize the wet heat of Charles's mouth, the constriction of his throat, the rub of his tongue. And that finger, holding him barely open, enough on its own to grit his teeth and lock his jaw.

Charles swallowed around him, stayed where he was instead of pulling back. When Erik opened his eyes again, infernal blue looked back at him - full of smugness and mirth. Erik could barely hear over the blood roaring in his ears; he let his head fall back against his chair, let the lassitude of orgasm hold him for a moment. His grip went slack and Charles eased out of Erik's hold, let Erik's slackening cock rest against his thigh. He licked his lips.

Erik brought his hands to his face, rested the heel of each palm against his eyes. Then he shook himself, crowded forward against Charles until the selkie man was under him on the thick rug in front of the fireplace. He kissed him again, tasted himself on Charles's red lips. Erik pulled back to catch his breath. "Thank you for that."

"A bargain is a bargain, my friend." The words could have stung; Charles made them softer with another kiss, with arms and legs that wrapped around Erik's body to make him feel welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

Once upon a time, Erik had watched his mother and his father cooking breakfast. They had touched each other often, brushing shoulders and trading kisses as they laughed. Erik had sat at the table, thought, in the way of children, that he would one day have that for himself. Someone with him, doing simple tasks.

None of that had come to him; Erik had come to the island to hide himself, hide his scars and be safe.

For a moment, Erik let the comfort of Charles’s body remind him of that long-ago desire. He breathed deep of the saltwater smell he found at the crook of Charles’s elbow, let his nose rest against the skin there. One, two, three, Erik counted his breaths.

“A poorer bargain for you than I would want.” Erik raised his head and smiled at the man underneath him. Charles squirmed a bit, the unmistakable press of hardness at Erik’s belly an impatient reminder that Erik had been the only one to find any satisfaction. Fast… and selfish to boot.

Charles shook his head. “There are many hours left in the night.”

“You make an excellent point.” When Charles had knelt before Erik’s chair and taken him to pieces, the difference in their sizes had not been apparent. But now, with Charles splayed beneath him, Erik was aware of how small the other man seemed. Not without substance, but shorter by at least a head, narrow in the hips. He pushed himself up, propped some of his weight up on one arm. That gave him space to touch; Erik traced a circle around one nipple with a shy, light pressure.

The response to it was gratifying: Charles stilled his restless movements, his eyes closed, his breath rushed cool and fast in his fine nostrils. Erik was curious; he traced the same circle with the point of his tongue and Charles whined high and tight.

That was something then, a place to start. Erik sucked at the hard little nub and smiled against Charles’s chest when the selkie man gasped. His bidding, Charles had agreed to it for the whole course of the night. It was the same as permission and Erik would take it, do as he pleased.

Erik pulled further back, until the limbs Charles had wrapped around him let him go. He felt colder for the loss, but Erik moved back in closer to find the warmth again, ghosted his mouth over Charles’s ribs. He tasted and nibbled until Charles shivered – ticklish. Then he kissed his way to Charles’s hip, sucked a bruise into bloom. It wasn’t purple in the human way; as everything else with Charles, it was pale, mottled pink and plum, like the mother of pearl inside an abalone. It was beautiful. Erik made another mark on the opposite hip.

It was probably unfair – Charles did not belong to him. But Erik would allow himself to pretend, just a little bit. It had been such a long time since he’d let himself believe anything. It was possible he’d never felt anything quite so good.

His hands weren’t idle. Erik petted all the skin he could reach, touched until he knew all the textures of Charles’s skin, the underlying strength of ligament and bone, the energy thrumming through him as Charles watched Erik learn his surfaces. He nosed his way back up along Charles’s side, from hip to arm pit, lips and teeth and tongue. Charles was not silent, breathing heavy punctuated with slight moans, bitten back gasps when Erik found an especially sensitive spot.

If it was just to be one night, Erik would feel as much as possible. At a needy sound from Charles, low and pained, he laughed with his head thrown back, joyous and genuine. Then Erik bent his head and turned his attention to the place he’d been avoiding. There’d been little opportunity to practice the particular skill, but Erik wanted it, wanted the heavy weight on his tongue, the fullness of a hard cock making it hard to breathe. He lapped at the head, let his fingers explore the unfamiliar foreskin.

Charles huffed a pleasure noise, bent his knees and let his legs fall further open. His hands shifted with restless motion on the rug, as though he had to do something but did not want to restrain Erik in any way. The generosity of it made Erik nauseous for a moment, gift of it a weight in his stomach.

He tried to give back, in whatever small way he could. Erik filled his mouth with Charles's cock until he choked with it, gagged and had to abandon the task for a moment, rest his forehead on Charles's thigh to catch his breath.

"Use your hand." Charles didn't sound angry but Erik wasn't sure he'd be able to tell. "I'd like it that way." One of Charles's hands moved from the rub to cup the back of Erik's neck. It was calm, a rewarding touch.

It hardly seemed fair - and Erik's pride was not so easily salved. Still, he reached to stroke Charles, experimental with angle and pressure until Charles's breath hitched in his throat. It wasn't the same motion Erik used on himself. The strokes were easier, indulgent. Charles seemed to like them, from the soft noises he made, seemed to like Erik's head resting on his hip as Erik watched his own hand.

The room was quiet, the hiss of the fire and the wind outside not enough to drown out the sounds of their breathing, the whine that kept escaping Charles's mouth when he began to thrust up against Erik's hand, restrained motions that begged for a faster pace. Erik was happy to give it to him, nipped at the skin over a hipbone as he increased his pace. The bite seemed to set Charles off; the low whine turned into a shout as he came, head thrown back and hand gripping at Erik's shoulder.

Perhaps that way had been the best after all; Erik eased his strokes and contemplated the semen that clung to his fingers. He might not have been as prepared to swallow such a sudden rush despite his willingness. He felt Charles's eyes on him; when Erik looked up the pale stretch of body, pleased blue eyes surveyed the mess Charles had made of Erik in such a short time.

The source of the urge was unidentifiable. But Erik didn't fight himself. He lifted his hand to his mouth, licked and sucked at his fingers to learn the taste of the man under him. Charles closed his eyes and moaned to see it, stretched and wriggled until they were sharing the little bit of body heat that could be generated between them.

Bitterness on his tongue, Erik couldn't help but smile. And he didn't stop himself from touching, his hands all over the selkie man, followed by his mouth. More touching, more tasting, more kissing of flesh - Erik wanted more of it all on the floor in front of the fire.

“May I fuck you?” Erik licked the back of Charles’s knee. “Not now, obviously. But when we're ready again.” It wouldn’t take very long. He was already heating up, the power of pleasing Charles pumping along inside his blood. His cock was stirring again, slow with his pulse.

The same huffing noise as earlier, pleased and surprised – Charles nodded. “Of course you may.” As though it were a silly question. Erik thought he would always prefer to ask, to be sure. He’d be able to wait this time, there would be room for more of everything.

Including more preparation. Erik frowned. His hands were rough, cracked at the knuckles from the salt that often dried on his skin. "Did I hurt you?" Charles was soft and smooth everywhere; Erik would never forgive himself if he'd damaged that.

"I'm not so fragile as all that." Charles stretched again, fitted his palm flat against one of Erik's. His hand was smaller, but it wasn't a child's hand. He spread his fingers. The skin between his fingers was translucent, almost enough to be webbing. "But go and fetch whatever you were thinking of. I'll be here when you return."

Erik startled. His nervous worry should not have been so evident. But he nodded, scrambled to his feet, took his usual long, efficient strides toward the bedroom. He paused, looked back. Charles was already looking at the fire, comfortable with his nudity and relaxed there, patient, as though he had all the time in the world. Erik was not nearly so content to wait - with a last look, he moved to his bedside table, rummaged for the lubricant he rarely used on himself. His hand hovered over the strip of condom packets tossed into the same drawer; he scooped them up as well. With is free hand, he tugged at the key on the chain around his neck, thinking. Then he lifted the chain over his head, puddled it on the bedside table.

He would return Charles’s skin to him in the morning – Erik had made that bargain and he would keep to it. But, alone in his bedroom, in the dark with his honesty, Erik imagined it: hiding the pelt away, keeping Charles with him. No children, but a companion, one who seemed to like him well enough. Maybe something to last.

Foolishness. Erik knew the stories, knew there was no truly secure hiding place. And it would be wrong to trap a wild thing and hold it against its will. Charles’s heart would pound like a bird’s heart, wings caged and useless; he would always yearn for the sea. He had a home there. He might have a lover there.

A lover – Erik hadn’t considered it when he’d brought the pelt home, heavy in his arms.

Curiosity made his steps slow. And… dread that, despite what the selkie man had said, Charles would be gone. Erik closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he looked. The door was still open, the fire still burned. And for a heartbeat, when Erik looked at the place where they had lain intertwined, he saw nothing but the rug. He made himself blink, look again.

“What did you find, my friend?” Charles was still there, barely moved. A trick of the light, a trick of Erik’s fear. Charles shifted, made a space closer to the fire and mimicked the gesture Erik had used earlier to invite Erik to lay there.

His feet carried him forward without conscious permission or decision. But Erik stopped. “Do you,” it was awkward, unsure, “do you have a wife? Or a husband? Someone who would be waiting for you?” Erik had done enough harm, caused enough hurt in his life.

When Charles responded, after a steady look that saw Erik's nakedness head to toe, it was not a human sound. Erik remembered the noise he’d first made, the painful bark. Laugher. Charles was laughing at him. Erik looked away.

Rustling sounds, like dry summer grasses, almost made him turn back, but then there was a cool touch to his side, and Charles was there in front of him, had closed the distance between them. “I have a sister. She likes birds.” Charles raised his chin, stood until Erik met his gaze. “You are not keeping me from anyone.”

It winded Erik, the embarrassment, and he felt heat spread up his neck. Charles gave a forceful exhale – not a sigh, but definitely exasperation. He bumped up against Erik with his body, then turned and made his way, easier on his feet but still not graceful, to the door. He reached for the handle, and pulled it closed. The latch confounded him for a moment and Charles tilted his head, studied it and felt the shape of it with his fingers. Then he bolted it. “Now, show me what you would bring to me.” He returned to Erik, reached up and touched the place on Erik’s bare neck where the key had hung.

Erik’s muscles felt locked, as secure as the door he’d meant to leave open as an escape route. He was bad with people. He was bad even at this. But Charles was waiting, as he’d waited for Erik’s return from the bedroom – and perhaps he had disappointed the selkie man enough. Erik raised opened his hand and Charles made the same barking laugh at the sight of the condoms.

“Such a modern offering.” Charles herded Erik back to the fireside, used his body, as short as Erik had realized, to nudge and prod until they were back at Erik’s chair. “Sit here.” He took everything from Erik and dropped it to the floor beside them.

When he sat, Charles climbed into Erik’s lap, draped his cool body across Erik’s warm human one so that Erik was blanketed, cradled between the seat of his chair and the man touching his marked skin. It was enough. Erik buried his face against Charles’s throat, capable of movement under his own power again but with no greater desire than to touch. “I seem to be doing your bidding instead.” Erik was not objecting.

He had not planned to be trapped himself, Erik thought. He should have been smarter. But it was too late and he would not change his actions; Erik sat, breathed slow and easy with the weight and smell of another body pressed to his. The room warmed with the door closed, no more salt and sea spray at the entryway. It was grounding, soothing to be naked and warm and not alone. He would only close his eyes, Erik told himself, for a few minutes, just to savor it.


	3. Chapter 3

Something ticklish at his ears pulled Erik up from a comfortable dream, from sleep that had been sound and welcoming. No nightmares. He blinked, blinked again. The light was low, the fire nearly burned out, nothing more than soft crackling waves of warmth that distorted the air above the embers. Erik knew the feeling, felt like he was going to shiver in place until he would no longer recognize his own reflection. He had to clear his throat, dried out from sleeping in the heat; when he did, Charles raised his head from Erik’s shoulder.

“You let me sleep.” Maybe later Erik would curse the lost time. But he felt so comfortable, soothed for once. Maybe that was as good as anything else.

Charles bared his teeth and Erik realized he was mirroring Erik’s own smile back to him, trying to give him something else. “There are not as many hours now. But sleep is as important as sex sometimes.” Charles leaned in, traced the rim of Erik’s earlobe with the point of his tongue.

Sometimes. But not now that Erik was awake again. Erik didn’t need words for that message to be clear; his body agreed, all of him stirring as his fingers found their way to Charles’s hair again, dry now, as soft as Erik had thought it would be, the long ends thick at the top of Charles’s spine. He leaned up for the kiss, this time did not have to think about the way to properly slide his tongue, suck the full lower lip, whisper back a sound of enjoyment.

It was different from the first kisses they’d shared. Erik had tasted as much of Charles’s body as he’d been able but now he was content to learn the textures and responses of Charles’s mouth alone. He knew the teeth were sharp, had felt them at various points as they nibbled. Erik wanted to feel them on his collarbones. But there was more to Charles’s mouth; Erik had agreed to a slower second time. The urgency that had ridden him the first time had abated.

The roof of Charles’s mouth was bumpy instead of smooth. His gums and the insides of his cheeks were slick and smooth. His tongue was still rough, a rasp that raised gooseflesh on Erik’s arms when it licked into Erik’s own mouth. Charles finally felt warm, finally felt like there was blood in his veins; the bruises Erik had left on his hips were livid with the warmth of sleeping on top of each other, vivid red and purple where they had been pastel eggs.

Erik ran his hands up Charles’s back, counted the knobs of his spine as far up and down as could be reached. He kept his eyes closed while they kissed, determined simply to feel it, to not be distracted by Charles’s eyes or mouth or pretty figure. Vertebrae connected with ribs, and Erik chased those with his hands as well, until he knew how much Charles’s chest would expand with a full and deep breath.

With his eyes closed, and his nerves at attention, Erik could smell Charles, too. He’d tasted the salt, smelled the seawater at all of Charles’s joints – but dry and warm, Charles smelled of something else as well. Something Erik could not entirely name. It was green and blue; it was living. It was a morning smell, a cheerful smell, like chimney smoke from fireplaces where breakfast was being cooked. He drew in a lungful, greedy for the lightheadedness of it, the way it made him feel even larger than he already did in comparison, the way it made him feel strong.

Strength – he had some kinds of it. He was strong enough to give Charles back to the ocean, after all.

Full up with a deep breath of Charles, Erik opened his eyes – Charles was watching him even while their mouths moved together, even as Erik rubbed his lips against Charles’s lips. There were lines at the corners of Charles’s eyes; he hadn’t noticed them before. In a human they would be laugh lines, signs of a happy heart. Erik cupped Charles’s chin in his fingers, bent Charles down so that Erik could kiss the corners of his eyes.

The clamor of the rest of his body was increasing in volume. But Erik tuned it out, refused to listen to the urges that wanted him to take Charles, because kissing was so much sweeter.

Kissing was so much sweeter... but Charles had ideas of his own; a slower second time, he'd said, and the selkie man seemed determined to carry through with that plan. As much as Erik touched him, Charles touched back, no longer sitting passive so Erik could do as he pleased. Charles moved and pressed into the touch when Erik's hands did something he particularly enjoyed. Charles liked to be petted, stroked in a long rub from his nape to his tailbone, his spine arching like a cat; Charles liked to be praised, made high whimpery sounds when Erik muttered against whatever skin he'd just tasted: "So wonderful, so beautiful, so generous for me."

He was hard again, a low-level throb that beat in time with his heart, regular as a drum. Charles touched him, fleeting touches that kept him winding slowly tighter, that made his fingers grip more tightly. The selkie man was bold with his hands, reached for what he wanted. Erik gave in to it, spread his own thighs wider to encourage Charles closer until he hissed at the closeness of their contact. Charles shifted his weight to keep his balance when Erik couldn’t help but move; they moved together and it was the easiest thing Erik had ever done. He wasn’t good with people; this was all because of Charles.

Erik stilled, grasped at Charles’s wrists until the other man paused, head tilted to the same angle he’d used to study the door latch until he understood it. But the latch had been a simple mechanism. Charles shook his head, until his hair flopped over his forehead in a mess. Unimportant – unimportant and unnecessary to dwell on it in the moment. Erik had not expected to feel relieved but his chest felt lighter, his breath felt easier, like he’d come out into the clear air. He smiled, small and sweet, and then urged Charles into motion again.

With the door closed, even with the fire low, Erik's skin slicked with sweat. Charles rubbed against Erik's chest, chuffed with pleasure at the salted wetness, then repeated the motion. Charles did not seem to sweat, his skin almost as cool as it had been when he came in out of the night. Charles slipped backwards and forwards, the contrast of his fine-pored skin against Erik’s skin, roughened with a dusting of hair, distracted Erik enough that he was surprised when Charles twisted, leaned down to pick something up from the floor.

The small tube of lubricant he had brought from the bedroom. Charles pressed a kiss to Erik’s sternum and shimmied in Erik’s lap. “My answer has not changed in the interval.” Charles all but dripped of the ocean but his tone was as dry as any desert that Erik had ever seen, though there was no dust to blow around in the wind. Droll.

It would have made Erik pull back, fearful of condemnation, but Charles had made him comfortable. He chuckled, hot breath on Charles’s shoulder and took the lubricant. He opened it, squeezed a bit onto his fingers. It was colder than he expected; Erik sucked in a breath through his teeth. He rubbed his fingers together, warmed it before tracing slick fingers from the small of Charles’s back down over the cleft of his ass. Charles braced his arms, hands pressed into the muscles of Erik’s shoulders, and leaned back, closer to Erik’s fingers.

There was no refusing such a clear request, particularly when Erik wanted it himself. He traced his fingers again, delved deeper, until he could tease across the closely puckered hole. “Are you hot and tight inside?” Erik kept his touch light, tried to make his voice match. In that he failed: his words were low, guttural with his want. “Or will you be as cool inside as your skin is?” He pressed his way in with the pad of one finger. “Warmer than your mouth – but just as tender?”

Charles hung his head, panted with eager puffs of air across Erik’s neck. Erik slipped his finger deeper, to the second knuckle, and Charles grunted before he took the skin below Erik’s jaw between his teeth.

It felt right, to have Charles’s teeth in his flesh, felt like being marked in a way that mattered. It spurred Erik forward, made him draw his finger back so that he could add another, begin to stretch Charles so that Erik could claim him, too. One night or a thousand and one nights – Charles was his.

The realization made his fingers rough – Erik thrust them in deeper than he’d meant to, the way he wanted to open Charles’s body for his cock, the way he wanted to fit himself inside and make a place just for himself. Charles rose up on his knees, cried out at the sudden invasion, but then he clenched tight around Erik’s fingers. His blue eyes were closed, his jaw was loose – he’d said he wasn’t fragile and perhaps he had meant it after all. Erik twisted his fingers, watched Charles’s face until his mouth opened and Charles asked for it with a whine. “Maybe less slow. More fast.”

He could do that; if Erik was capable of anything, he was capable of giving them both what they wanted. A third finger, added more gently but with purpose. He bit the inside of his cheek for patience, breathed steady through his nose. Charles wanted it, was straddling his lap and eager for it; Erik would take that and treat it well, as well as Charles deserved.

As well as they both deserved, perhaps. Erik groped for the tube of lubricant with his free hand and tapped Charles’s left thigh with it until Charles opened his eyes. They were blown black and unfocused and Erik worried, for a few breaths, that he was going to be pulled in and drowned in a whirlpool. Some of the village children thought the bottom of whirlpools were dry – he’d heard that as a child, too. But the bottoms of Charles’s eyes were glossy wet like tears. Charles blinked before Erik could find himself too deep under to remember how to breathe – he tilted his head again, didn’t try to speak.

“Put it on me.” The condoms were on the floor, within easy reach – but Charles had laughed at them, laughed at them; he had laughed at Erik, too, just a little. And, Erik thought with a delirious internal laugh of his own, he and the condoms both probably were a bit ridiculous. He’d already tasted Charles’s come; Charles had swallowed him entirely. And no matter the way he looked it, Charles wasn’t… human. “Put it on me so I can fuck you.”

There was a gleam of approval in the night water depths of Charles’s eyes before he settled, with deliberate weight, back across Erik’s thighs, spread wide and held open with Erik’s fingers. The muscles of his ass flexed as he rode the intrusion, trusted Erik to support him while Charles fumbled with the tube’s cap, stared in distracted fascination when it came off in his fingers, then squeezed lubricant out onto his palm.

He followed direction well, gripped Erik tight from base to tip and stroked to transfer the slickness. It would be so good to come that way, Erik thought, done to like it was a sign of care. But he tossed his head and grabbed at Charles’s hips, both hands hauling the smaller man where he was wanted, where he was needed. Charles rose up on his knees as much as he could, and Erik reached to fit the head of his cock where his fingers had been.

Slow, slow, slow, Erik worked to hold himself to a slow and steady pressure; Charles would have more bruises on his hips, spaced evenly like fingermarks. Charles tossed his hair out of his eyes; his face looked tight like a wince and he was holding his breath. Erik didn't have the power to ask if he was okay, if this was okay or if he should stop. Instead, he let gravity and resistance set his pace for this, the last thread of caution he could manage.

He'd been fucked before. Erik hadn't really enjoyed it the first time, had not, he supposed, truly been meant to enjoy it because it had been intended as a lesson and a punishment and a reward all wrapped up in one. The anticipation of penetration had nearly been enough to bring him off; the first pressure of a cock at his ass had set his legs to shaking, the muscles in his thighs aching from the strain of holding still for it. He'd hurt then, not been ready for the brutal first thrust that had made him bleed. The thumbs pressing into his sides had hurt, too, and Erik had panicked at the way he was being held down, held still.

There had been other attempts; Erik was too stubborn to admit defeat. He'd found his pleasure in it. But he was careful, every single time he dealt it out, to remember.

Charles made him forgetful of his control; Erik pulled Charles's body down and pressed his hips up, an implacable advance. Charles's red mouth opened around a bitten-off cry but he nodded, frantic, before Erik could voice even a small doubt. "It's good - keep going, keep going."

If Charles had said no, to stop, Erik would have found it in himself to do so, he promised himself that. Instead, he felt relief bubble up from the base of his throat and exit his mouth as a choked laugh. Charles had said it was good and it was; saying it was good was damning it with faint praise. It was enveloping pressure and enough resistance to provide a sweet friction. It was hot and cold up his spine, enough to make him conscious of the sweat blooming across his upper lip and the cramp of his toes. It was the yearning of his body, the muscles themselves, to move and fuck up into Charles's body like there was no other option.

Fully seated in Charles's body, Erik dropped his head back again his chair, closed his eyes and breathed deep. If he looked at Charles, it would wreck him. Charles shifted, and Erik thought that might wreck him as well. It was quite possible all of it was going to kill him. Charles shifted again and Erik cursed; a puff of air ghosted over his cheek and he opened his eyes to find Charles there, mouth an inch from his own.

"Are you quite all right?" When he spoke, Charles's lips brushed against Erik's chin, an unexpected caress that felt like a brand. The selkie man moved again, raised up just enough for Erik to growl at the sensation, then settled back down again, a shudder moving across his shoulders.

"It's good." It was so much better than that but Charles's words were all Erik could find in his mind. And because Charles was so close, and his lips so red, Erik kissed him again, open-mouthed and demanding. He nipped at the full lower lip, shaped for a pout; he licked his way in behind sharp teeth.

They had both, Erik thought, been overly ambitious when they had planned for the second time to be slow. Charles flexed his legs, raised and lowered himself. Erik kept his grip on Charles's hips, lifted and then guided the motion back down to meet his own thrusts. He braced his feet wider apart on the floor, slouched down so he could look up at Charles, watch every stuttered breath.

Charles's cock curved between them. Erik wanted to move a hand, wanted to grasp Charles's and stroke him to orgasm both inside and out. His fingers were clenched too tightly; he had to hold on. "Touch yourself. I want to see that."

This time when Charles bared his teeth it was his own unique expression, not a reflection of Erik’s smile. It was something fierce and Erik wasn’t sure quite what it meant, though it made him bite his own lip and surge up into Charles with greater force. Charles dropped one hand from Erik’s shoulder, pushed his cock against Erik’s belly with the flat of his hand. When they moved together, Erik felt the slickness of precome smear across his skin, felt the rub of Charles’s cock against his abdomen. It made him want, with a sudden staggering clarity, to reverse their positions, to let Charles fuck up into him with an edge of pain that was inevitable but also exquisite; it made Erik want to let Charles have his own way with Erik’s body.

A future regret, perhaps, a chance he should have known to take. Knowing the loss of it ahead of time seasoned the kiss Erik sat up to give Charles. With his mouth full of Charles’s tongue, Erik could not complain. Nor could he complain when Charles shifted his other hand to Erik’s throat, the small fingers stretching to span the base of it before shifting higher, not squeezing but resting there, possessive, thumb pressed against his strong pulse.

That, almost more than the pressure around his cock, closed Erik’s eyes again. He shifted his grip, dug his fingers in tighter, pulled Charles down flush against him; he ground up in circles that only forced him deeper. If he only had this, then, for the rest of his life, Erik thought it would be more than enough.

Erik had always had a habit of constant analysis; it was overwhelmed by the rhythm of his body in Charles. He was present, immediate, focused on the way his balls were drawing up, his stomach clenching, his arms shaking. The selkie man seemed similarly lost to it, all slow-blinking eyes and open red mouth as he clutched at Erik’s throat, hand flexing in time with Erik’s movements, nails digging in.

There would be crescent marks in the skin there, pink and cream half moons obscured, if Erik didn’t shave, by the shadow of his beard. He would know they were there. Charles strained against him, thrashed and barked. “Erik.” There was surprise in the wideness of his blue eyes. His come streaked Erik’s chest, his body tight like a vise, and Erik plummeted, no more in control of himself than he was of the tides that brought the boats in and out every day and night.

It was, Erik thought when he came back to his body, drifting at the edges of his nerve endings, a little like dying to realize that you loved someone. There was no reason for it, no illusion that it was based on the things that tied people together for the span of their lives. But it was there, and it was more than he had possessed before.

Charles breathed against his neck, hot exhales relighting the pain of broken skin so that it flared and stung. His blood beat against the pressure of Charles’s hand, slowed as they both caught their breaths and leaned against each other.

He’d said Erik’s name – the first time Charles had said it. Erik would remember that.

“I have,” he muttered against the mop of Charles’s hair, “in the other room, I have a shower if you want.” If he thought he could stand. Erik wasn’t entirely sure about the trustworthiness of his own legs. And his softening cock was still in Charles’s body – Erik would not hurry to leave that; the night could never be long enough.

But Charles managed to shake his head, managed to convey with the weight of his body that he had no desire to move. They’d be sticky and itchy in the morning, Erik though. It would be terrible. He made no move, no sound to force the issue.

The last embers of the fire glowed in the hearth. Erik shifted just enough to gather Charles more comfortably against him. He closed his eyes again, secure.


	4. Chapter 4

He woke enough to know he was cold. Erik made a noise of protest, close enough to deep sleep that he only recognized the removal of something that had kept him warm. A soft brush, like silky fur, across his forehead stilled him, and he held tightly onto the blanket that was draped over him.

***

The rain battered at the door like an unwelcome guest. Erik stirred, finally, from the depths of his chair. He was alone then, Charles returned to where he’d begun, his skin found: clean and brushed and barely hidden in the trunk under Erik’s bed with the key on the bedside table. Erik sighed, pushed himself to his feet, stretched. Rain or no rain, there were chores that needed doing after he showered. And if, under the spray of water he turned up hotter than usual, he ran his hands over the marks on his throat, no one was there to see it.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a fish in his boat.

Erik made most of his living fixing things for people on the island, who neither liked nor trusted him but recognized his mechanical ability. He traded small jobs for fresh goods or small comforts that he mostly forgot he had available, and he fished as well.

The fish in his boat was large, fresh caught, and - "you do not eat enough." Charles had said that, three nights ago, kneeling on the floor of Erik's living room. It was still a true thing; Erik had not changed his habit of only coffee for breakfast and his attention had been on other things in the intervening days, his appetite small, his heart not in it.

He'd tried not to think of it very much, had gone about his days by rote, had spent his evenings with the door closed and latched, reading, ignoring the sound of the ocean and the smell of the air. That first night had been spent drinking perhaps more heavily than he should have done, just to drown it all out. The headache the next day had been a valuable reminder why he generally avoided excess, but Erik had taken to lighting a fire in his hearth anyway, a small excess with less chance of making him feel ill in the morning, keeping the room warm enough that he could go barefoot, toes curling in the rug. He avoided the rocks on the shore, avoided scanning the water for a seal he had no reason to recognize.

If his loneliness had been without name or words before, without acknowledgment, he had a name for it now: Charles. Though, he told himself, it was simply that Charles was the first to slip into his awareness, the first to interest him. It was defensive; Erik recognized his own mental maneuvering. His self-respect demanded awareness, but in this he was willing to compromise with himself. He refused to see himself as tragic.

And now there was a fish in his boat, one that he did not catch. His face felt strange - Erik only recognized that he was smiling when he thought about the muscles involved, the position of his mouth. It could have been anyone, of course. Any one of his distant neighbors with whom he exchanged as few words and pleasantries as possible.

There was no reason for it to be Charles. Erik had not kept to his side of the bargain entirely - he had not personally returned Charles's pelt to him. But he had known, when he had left the key on the bedside table, no desire for that to be between them in any fashion, Charles would be able to find it.

Sleeping in his chair, even in front of the fire and with warmth all around him, had made him stiff and creaky that morning. Erik had felt old, his solitude pressing in against the backs of his eyes. But they had made a bargain; he could not bring himself to wish things had gone in any fashion other than the way they had progressed. Charles had given him sleep, deeper and calmer than he'd had on his own in years. The sex had loosened his limbs, but the sleep... Erik was too prone to despair. Charles had been right about that as well.

Erik took the fish home, dug through the small cabinets in his kitchen until he found the dried herbs and salt he'd gotten in trade for cleaning an old motor, tinkering until the mechanics of it had been bright and running smoothly. There had been meat along with the seasoning, the makings of a proper meal that he hadn't bothered to prepare.

He was capable, competent when it came to feeding himself if somewhat uninspired. He thought, when he ate, that he had used too much dill and not enough salt. And lemon might have transformed the meal from passable to actually really quite good. But Erik ate everything he had piled on his plate, had leftovers for his next meal as well. And when he pushed back from the table, it was with a settled sense of fullness in his belly, a comfortable satiety he had not missed before because he had not realized how hungry he was.

When he slept, his bed as narrow as it had always been, and as empty, it was easier and deeper than any rest he'd had since the bargain with the selkie man. He woke in the middle of the night, comfortable and drifting, and thought: red mouth, rough tongue, dark hair. Erik touched himself the way he'd touched Charles, with more indulgence, less utility. When his orgasm spilled out over his fingers, Charles's name spilled out over his lips.

Three days later, there was another fish. Erik had trudged out to his boat, cold and tired; the nightmares had returned, just enough to keep him on edge, to prevent his neck from unkinking, his shoulders from relaxing. His aches were more insistent; the days were getting shorter. The scales of the fish gleamed like an oil slick. He exhaled, something in Erik easing. There was still no evidence that it was Charles. But Erik smiled, could not help himself.

Three days after that, another fish. And a shell, clean and empty of flesh. He traced the curl of it with one finger, imagined the curl of Charles’s ear. The blushing pink of the inside was pale, made him wonder how long the marks he’d left on Charles’s body had lasted. The bruising was surely faded, no evidence remaining of Erik’s desperate possession. The marks on his own body, carefully cataloged and mapped with sensitive fingertips, were almost indistinguishable.

Erik kept the shell in his pocket, rubbed his thumb over its smooth surface, along its whorls and edges, whenever he paused in thought.

There had been nothing more, not even an imagined sign of Charles, for a full week. Erik had eaten his leftover fish, and then he had left the door unlatched, propped slightly open in welcome whenever he was at home. There was little enough in his small house, if any of the villagers decided they had some need of taking something. Most of it had come from them at some point, payment for services. Erik thought to return to his ascetic existence, though he kept a fire going, as though that would balance the universe and bring Charles back to him. His days felt heavy in a way he had not realized before.

His routine moved him, as it had since Erik moved to the island; every day was the same and it was a relief of sorts. Still, he went to sleep one night with a craving for something sweet, just a small bit of something, that he could not sate with the dry remains of his current rations. And so Erik rose earlier than usual, stood in his open doorway and watched the sea while he sipped his coffee. He was out of even enough sugar to sweeten the bitterness of the hot beverage; Erik thought there was probably a metaphor there but he had not lived in a world with poetry for a very long time. Then he dressed, slow and reluctant, and made his lengthy way into the village.

After the isolation of his little stretch of beach, the village seemed a loud and bustling place. He had adapted to solitude a little too well, Erik thought; before he had come to hide on the island, he had lived in cities, large ones with people on the streets at all hours, lights and sounds that never stopped. He chuckled at his own reaction, but he held himself rigid and tall, contained so that he did not come into contact with any of those around him. It was too late, though; his moment of self-deprecation had not escaped the shop owner's attention. The man watched Erik while he gathered what he needed: flour, eggs, powdered milk and fresh milk both. Sugar. Canned goods and what fresh vegetables he thought he could eat before they spoiled. Erik ignored him, added a piece of fresh steak to his stack of purchases, following an impulse toward things he had enjoyed once upon a time.

The shop owner totaled his purchases, and Erik fumbled for cash with fingers numbed by the overcast day. He paused. It was frivolous and unnecessary. And there was no guarantee that Charles would ever find it. "And one of these."

A bit of blue glass, simple and heavy in his palm, like the wing of a seabird. When Erik held it up to the light, it was not the same color as Charles's eyes. But he'd said he had a sister, a sister who liked birds. Erik blushed, felt the heat of it rise up the back of his neck and over his ears.

The man behind the counter didn't wait for Erik to exit the store before he reached for the phone. His whisper followed Erik, rode his shoulders until the tall man hunched against the chill of it, colder than the weather. But he had the blue glass in his pocket. And supplies enough to avoid town for a few more weeks. Perhaps his uncharacteristic levity would be forgotten by then. And he had faced their whispers before, when he had first arrived. There had been speculation, gossip regarding everything from his religion to his orientation. Erik had given them little enough information to go on, had kept himself to himself only to find that, in the absence of willing answers, the villagers had made the answers up for themselves.

His other errands were quicker, were less painful. Involved fewer people. The post office, his key opening a mostly empty box. Two letters, one sender. They could wait to be read, words stable on paper the way conversation had never been.

The distance he put between himself and the village felt like taking off a heavy pack, unloading it a burden at a time as he came closer to his own doorway. Erik bundled his groceries inside, invented places to put things - he'd had supplies he had never purchased before. He shed his coat, like a seal skin, he laughed to himself – but Erik stopped and put his hand in the pocket.

The blue glass sparkled. The rest of his shopping could wait to be put away. Erik left the door open behind himself and walked down across the sand, crossed to the rocks. He slipped and nearly fell, threw out an arm for balance and recovered. The rocks were the same, even if everything else felt slightly different, even if everything else felt like it had changed in ways he could not see with any precision.

It was a simple matter to find where he had stumbled upon the pelt. Erik did not bother to wish that he would find it there again – vain hope would cheapened his actual desires. Instead, he settled the bit of blue glass on the rock, where he thought it might be seen if a seal or a man were to visit that particular stretch of beach. He had considered that it might be others. But it was Charles – Erik wanted it to be Charles and to deny that was to deny his own truth, lie to himself. Erik did not consider himself to be a good man; not all honest men were good men.

“Foolishness.” Erik muttered to himself, pushed himself away from the rock he’d settled onto. Even if Charles were to return to this spot, the odds of it happening while Erik sat there like a love-struck child were too small to calculate.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, there was another fish in his boat and Erik smiled until his face hurt with it, reached into his pocket to touch the shell he carried with him at all times. He had not gone to the rocks to see if the bit of blue glass was still there; Erik had felt the impulse and refused to give in to it. But maybe Charles had found it, had known what it meant: thank you, yes, always, yes.

There were other things it could mean but Erik was as unwilling to word them to himself as he was to tell all his secrets to the shop keeper in the village.

Even so, his face remained soft as he went about his day, his eyes further away than the carburetor he was focused on fixing, looking at things he had not remembered for a very long time. Gentle, easy things. There was no way he would trust them, but maybe in secret he could imagine them. Maybe, in secret, he could pretend Charles was his. What would it hurt?

The carburetor had proven stubborn, and Erik had packed it away for the day; the rocks by the beach were slippery but they were always slippery. He rambled, with a studied and deliberate casual indifference, to the rock where he'd... it was gone.

Erik sat down not because he had decided to but because his legs had decided it for him, his knees and his thighs both complicit, his ankles acquiescing. It was nothing so graceless as a fall, but he thought he might be bruised. The rocks were sharp and hard and unwelcoming on the best of days. It was why he liked them - he had tried to become like them.

The things Erik wanted and the things Erik got were generally the same; Erik limited his wants to things that were certain. He had learned that wanting things did not make those things come to a person, did not make those things happen, particularly when a child was doing the wanting. If anyone, he thought, could simply want a thing into being, it ought to be a child. Erik himself... lacked the faith to pull off such a tidy trick.

The evidence was before him, though: fish in his boat and his belly, a shell in his pocket, a bit of blue glass that was not where he had left it. There were reasons, he could think of other reasons these things might have happened. But Charles, Charles was the simplest of explanations at the same time he was the most complex. And, in Charles's absence, there was no way for Erik to pick him apart, understand the puzzle of why these things were happening to him.

Rather than the cold or his own stubborn hunger, regular as a fine clock now that he was eating with some vigor, it was the noise of splashing that pulled Erik from his daze. He scanned the waterline... seals.

Rounded grey heads, sleek and fat and intelligent, watching him as they approached the beach, splashing and diving with their bodies slipping over and under and around the bodies around them. Erik's mouth went entirely dry.

One of the seals, smaller than the others and with fur so intensely grey it seemed to reflect back as blue, barked and raced the final distance to the shoreline, the small expanse of sand between rock outcroppings. The seal bumped across the land, plump and gangly, all contradictions and impossibilities, as though it wanted to chase the sea birds that had been resting or looking for food - or whatever foolish sea birds did when they were not soaring on motionless feathers.

Charles had a sister. She liked birds. Erik could not contain himself; he had to laugh, low and behind his hand like he could hide it from the seals or even from himself. The seal looked back and barked at him, no, not at him but at the other seals still milling about in the water. There was more barking and splashing, all noise and motion and ease of existence - they were the creatures they were meant to be, all of them, and if they were not themselves, Erik thought, it would be because of some terrible injustice.

"Raven almost never catches them." The voice behind him startled Erik, was almost enough to upset his perch; he shifted and turned, defensive, ready to strike out. His heart beat hard with an old fear: must survive, must flee, must be safe away.

Charles. Erik caught himself; his body vibrated from the restrained motion, his arms hurting as thought he'd finished a swim to the mainland and back.

Red mouth, pale skin, dark hair - Charles looked the same as he had in Erik's living room. Erik thought for a moment his eyes were lying to him, his ears, all his senses. Perhaps he had fallen and hit his head. He could dying on the rocks, not even aware of it because he was hallucinating.

Charles cocked his head, a silent question.

"Thank you for the fish." It was the first thing Erik could bring himself to say - he hoped it would not be the last. He held himself still, the way one would in the presence of a wild creature. Charles was a wild creature; there was no mistaking it. The other man crept nearer, still not graceful but easier on his feet than he had been on Erik's level floor. Charles was naked, wet and windswept.

"I've hidden my skin. You will not find it again." The words should have been a warning. Instead, they seemed like an invitation, something welcoming and playful, as thought Erik could join them in the water, slip and turn and slide along Charles's seal body.

Erik nodded, slow and even, forced his breath to be the same. "I will not look for it again. Though I didn't find it on purpose the first time."

The words brought Charles closer, until the selkie man was all but in Erik's lap. His small fingers reached, and Erik braced himself for any of the things that flashed through his body, all the hidden wants he had yet to look at in the light of day. But Charles touched only the hem of Erik's sweater, tugged at it until Erik leaned back, let the fabric pull up from his waistband, let Charles ruck the fabric up until it was nearly at his armpits. The selkie man made a satisfied grunting noise.

"You eat better, though it is still not enough." Judgment pronounced, Charles moved as though he would retreat - and then reversed his motion, slid his fingers along Erik's side to feel his ribs. "I will give it more time."

Erik laughed because he could not help himself – Charles’s fingers were cold. The selkie man did not look offended, at least not in so far as Erik could see; that was something. He slid the fabric of his sweater down again, covered his skin from the weak sunlight but did nothing to dislodge Charles’s hands, which had come to rest against his sides.

He looked over Charles’s shoulder, at the seals still in the water. “You are, that is, I wanted to tell you, my door is open to you.” He felt hot and shivery despite the chill air. “Should you wish it.” Erik dared to meet Charles’s eyes then, for just a moment.

Charles had tilted his head to study Erik with an intensity that felt familiar. His eyes were inhuman in the depths of their clarity, but Erik saw nothing in them to warn him; Charles wriggled his way fully onto Erik’s lap, all damp and sand and knees and elbows.

The smaller man drew a full breath, his sides expanding with it. The sigh he huffed out was unaccountably satisfied. “You will meet Raven soon.” He placed a cold and careful kiss to Erik’s jaw.

It might not have gone further than that; Erik was not entirely sure what to do with a lapful of selkie lover when sitting on treacherously slick rocks. But the decision was taken away from them both – the crude sounds of loud laughter and, breaking the comfortable white noise of the waves like a bottle on stone, the blast of gunfire.

Charles was gone before Erik could register it. One moment the press of naked flesh against his clothed body, the next, emptiness rushing back to fill in the spaces that had been full of Charles, Charles, Charles.

The seals in the water had disappeared. Raven, blue-grey body faster than Erik would have expected if he had expected anything, raced for the waves. Erik stood – a boat full of men from the village was approaching. A rifle barrel was raised; Raven was not yet safe.

“Ho there, in the boat,” Erik raised his voice, enough for it to carry, fought against the sudden wind that would have stolen his volume from his throat. He waved his arm, hailed them again.

Two of the men waved back, the slowness of their response evidence of their confusion. “Ho, there, on the beach! Is that Lensherr?” A burly man in a cap cupped his hand around his mouth to return the greeting.

He had spoken to his fill of people the day before, in town. Erik looked over – Raven’s head peeked above the waterline, then dove again, away and safe. Well done enough, then. “Lensherr, here,” he acknowledged against all of his instincts for self-preservation. Those instincts had served him well, had brought him alive, if wounded, to the island. He had gone to ground, to lick his wounds, to hide. Perhaps for the rest of his life. “Stow your weapons.”

The steadiness of his voice was a triumph, if a small one.

The boat closed the distance, slowed until it bobbed in the shallows. The man in the cap remained standing, but at least the rifles had been tucked out of sight. Erik could not stop bullets.

“We followed a colony of seals out this way. Seen them then?” It was offered with a smile, a tentative and wary but still a smile. Erik had hailed them, had broken the ice. And they had no reason to think he was not a fisherman like them.

He shook his head. “They moved on.” Erik moved off of the rocks, onto the wet sand, his boots shiny in the foam of the tiny waves brave enough to break on his soles. “And I’d prefer you not hunt on my beach.”

It was nothing he could enforce; the seal hunt was legal. It kept the local economy moving, kept the village fed. But this small stretch was his.


	7. Chapter 7

The men had been reluctant. Erik had lied to them, he was good at lying when he needed to be, good enough, at least, for them to believe that he disliked guns, had had enough of them in the war, wanted only the peace and quiet to be found in isolation. In the end, there had been some sympathy on their weathered faces; the gossip would be all over the village before morning: Erik Lensherr wounded overseas, bad with loud noises because his nerves had been ruined, no doubt. Erik knew how the stories would run, how they would grow. Better than anyone knowing the whole of the truth, he thought.

It had kept them off his shoreline for a week, though.

Erik frowned down at the lettuce he had meant to shred for a salad, the leaves in shreds under his restless fingers. He had realized that he missed fresh vegetables, the crisp texture of green things, the bite and the crunch as he chewed. Canned goods would keep him alive, but he had begun to want more than that.

He had begun to want more than mere survival – but in truth, it would be simpler to say he wanted Charles. He wanted Charles and his inability to sate that want made Erik crave other things he had denied himself for… Erik thought Charles would consider it too long.

His hands moved independent of his thoughts, went through the motions of salvaging the lettuce and preparing the rest of his meal. Easy enough to go through the pretense of caring for himself when he could justify it as a thing that would please Charles.

As Erik ate, then cleaned up his mess and dishes, he let himself consider the way Charles had made himself at home in Erik’s lap. Like any other wild thing, Charles’s heart had beat fast, a too-fast tempo that was strong enough for Erik to feel it wherever their bodies touched. Charles was always touching him, so casually, so free with it. Erik wasn’t accustomed to it – but he wanted that, too: the calm of small fingers against his side, the phantom pressure like a tattoo he could not see, could only sense.

By the time his unlatched door, left ajar in deference to the words he’d offered Charles, creaked open, Erik was brooding; the fireplace was low and he slumped even lower in his customary seat. The tumbler of whiskey, cut crystal glinting in the dark, felt weighty in his hand. The alcohol burned on its way down, reminding him that it was pleasant to be numb.

Pleasant – and when Erik raised his head to Charles, framed by the door and hesitating on the threshold the way he had the first night, the whiskey also made it easy to beckon, to welcome, without fear of what might happen next.

The similarities to the night when Charles had appeared in search of his pelt were nearly enough to convince Erik he was dreaming, that he had slipped off to sleep in his chair. It would not be the first time; Erik did not doubt it would not be the last time such a thing happened.

But it was not a dream; Charles was as naked and damp and perfect as he had been, but he closed the door, relatched it as though he had been doing so all his life, and made his way to Erik without asking permission. Charles reached to pull Erik out of his chair, pushed Erik down to the rug.

Erik went willingly, though slightly drunk and unbelieving. Charles settled his weight on top, substantial enough to ground Erik, to show him where his breath had been hiding. “I am… happy you came back.” And he was – there was no denying the fierce gladness that choked Erik, made it difficult to swallow and to reason. But even in the face of that, Erik was curious. “I do not have your pelt.” He’d kept his promise not to look for it.

The hands reaching for the buttons of his shirt stilled. “You do not. I have hidden it, put it away quite safe for now.” Charles seemed smug about that, the set of his lips, the tilt of his nose.

It was, of course, quite reasonable for Erik to pull the other man closer by the ends of his hair in order that Erik could kiss the self-impressed smirk from his eyes and mouth and hands. Charles had come back to him; Erik did not care for the reasons why of it.

Charles allowed it, participated with teeth and tongue, turned his head when Erik tugged on his hair, held still so Erik could suck a possessive mark high up on his neck by the curve of his fine-boned jaw. That accomplished, Erik tried to sit up, tried to roll them both over but Charles made a sound of protest. The selkie man kept his position astride Erik’s thighs, worked at the front of Erik’s shirt until he reached flesh, then used the flats of his palms to push Erik flat on his back against the rug.

“Let me.” Charles leaned forward, nosed at Erik’s face, rubbed his cheek against the stubble on Erik’s chin.

Erik shifted, settled. His skin felt too tight, like he was going to split around the edges of his fingernails, like light was going to spill out of his insides. Charles nosed at him again, and Erik stretched his neck out, felt something coil through his ribs like a thick rope tying him up as Charles kept rubbing his face against Erik’s naked chest. He felt… marked without any bruising. Nothing visible, nothing so easy as that though Erik had been so pleased to leave a trace of himself on Charles’s skin.

It made him arch up, to think that others might be able to smell Charles’s scent on him; his clothes felt too confining, binding and tight and coldly sanitary compared to the comfort of Charles’s nudity. Human noses were dull, of course, but Erik fancied that something of salt and seaweed clung to him wherever the fabric exposed him when Charles sat up and looked pleased.

And if Charles smelled slightly of Erik’s sweat and the subtle metallic tang of a day spent working with an engine, Erik would never complain of it. He would only breath in through his nose, as deep a breath as he could, scenting their combined smells until he could taste both of them at the back of his throat.

“What do you want, this time?” As though there would be an agreed-upon next time. A week before, even with gift fish in his belly, Erik would not have allowed himself the liberty of planning their next meeting. But now the inevitability of it all seemed obvious. Erik smiled, pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, sent it tumbling across the floor into the kitchen with his enthusiasm.

Charles puffed sharp little huffs of air over Erik's bared shoulder - it struck Erik as a particularly smug and well-pleased sort of noise. It wasn't entirely pride that he felt at being the source of that sound, but it was like that rope had tightened, had creaked and snaked around itself so that now he was encircled and secure.

It let him breathe again as well - his assumption had frozen his lungs; Charles's response had set his heart beating again. He would not be punished for his presumption, the admission that he hoped for another time after this. Greedy, Erik though, so greedy to desire more. But he could not help himself. His lungs pulled tight again.

That was the way of hunger, in Erik's experience. There was never just a bit of it; there was always a vast and yearning ocean of it, flooding through all of him if he let himself acknowledge it: fathoms of want, a slow-melting ice berg of dreams that turned from trickle to torrent and drowned him before he could wake.

Erik had been frightened before, of course. He recognized the flutter at the base of his neck, the cramp in his gut, the acid seep and crawl of bile. The feeling intensified when Charles laid himself flat on top of Erik's body, a weight that should have kept him present, held him back from flying apart. The feeling intensified when Charles squirmed to reach Erik's ear.

"I did your bidding." Charles had done so much more than that. "This time, you will do mine." He nipped at Erik's ear, almost enough to draw blood.

The sharpness of it sent Erik's hands to the back of Charles's head before Erik could have thought to act; it was instinct that moved his hands, something else entirely that carded fingers through Charles's hair, held tight to the back of Charles's head, bone under skin under the thick bulk of his wet hair.

There was a hardness at his hip; Charles was hard. Erik realized, almost as an afterthought, that his own cock was aching, trapped quite pleasantly between their bodies. Erik had been frightened before; it had not stopped him from acting.

If his eyes were wide when he tugged on Charles's hair, just enough so the selkie man backed away, Charles did not speak of it. Erik blinked, breathed in deep through his nose. "Anything. Yes."


	8. Chapter 8

Charles slipped off to the side of Erik's body, the slide of his skin a rough and unintentional caress that made Erik's heart stutter in its regular steady beat, and sat: cross-legged and attentive, comfortably naked and aroused. One small hand gestured, reached to tug at the leg of Erik's pants.

"I want to see you." There was a wealth of instruction behind the simple statement. Charles's eyes glittered, blue and dark and clear. He wanted to see _Erik_ , scars and skin and all. And he wanted Erik to _show him_ , not just allow Charles to see.

Erik kept himself still, flat on his back, for the space of a single, deeply held breath. Anything, he'd said. Yes, he'd said. And, more than his agreement, there was his _want_ to consider; Erik wanted to show Charles just as much as he wanted Charles to look away, to make it as easy as it had been the first night. It had started with Erik's bidding and gone so far beyond that - it felt like a debt that needed to be repaid in full.

The bunching of his stomach muscles when Erik sat up, the shifting of his arms as Erik steadied himself, the changing plane of his back when he rose to stand - Charles watched with avid interest. Erik scrubbed a hand through his hair, stood still so Charles could look. "Do you want more light?"

His consonants were harsh, more so than they would be for anyone else he might speak to; his voice was deeper, more vulnerable even as he sounded stronger. The fire was low and guttering; it was the only source of light.

All he got in return was a small shake of Charles's head. Erik nodded in return. The dark made it easier. He wondered if Charles had known that. But even if Charles had asked for more light, Erik's next action would have been the same. He ran the pads of his thumbs along the waist of his trousers until they met at the button. Then he worked the button loose and the zipper down.

He had never stripped for a lover before, not simply to give them the pleasure of watching him reveal his body one article of clothing at a time. He had fumbled in the dark with others, he had groped and squeezed and wormed his hands under clothing in furtive stolen moments, and he had even had his clothing torn from him by violent hands that wanted to control his flesh as quickly as possible. There was nothing similar to this in his past. There was no one similar to Charles in his past. The thought made his mouth quirk up, a tiny smile. There was no one similar to Charles, Erik thought, in the world.

The rasp of his skin on fabric had kept Charles's attention; the selkie man watched with a rapt smile as Erik undid his fastenings. Charles caught his lower lip between his teeth when Erik pushed the fabric down his thighs, lower, until he could step out of it and straighten again, nothing but his underwear, faded soft boxers, covering him.

Old boxers, ones that covered him but did nothing to disguise Erik's own response. Charles gestured, and Erik stepped close enough for Charles to touch, to catch at the leg of the underwear, to rub the worn cotton with his thumb and forefinger. "Thin." As though Charles were cataloging the characteristics of Erik's preferences for such garments. "Soft. Old?"

"Comfortable. Clean." That had been his only thought when he'd dressed, still half asleep that morning. He hooked his thumbs in them, pushed them off so the fabric caught Charles's hand. Charles tugged the boxers the rest of the way down his legs until Erik stepped free of them, naked.

Erik's body was: long legs, sharp hip bones that were beginning to soften, shoulders and arms well muscled by use. Erik's body was: olive skin dusted with dark hair, rough and silky at the same time, pale scars standing out against the living canvas. There was no pattern to the scarring, no discernible single event until each scar was taken on its own, a quiet space created for a single voice to speak its story. Here: a childhood accident. There: a deliberate mark of cruelty. He turned; there had been no direction from Charles but Erik needed the freedom of movement, needed to turn his back so that he did not flee entirely.

If he turned his head to look, Erik knew he would find Charles still looking his fill, face serious and solemn; Erik did not turn to look. Charles had offered only his opinion that Erik did not eat enough; Erik waited for judgment.

"I will teach you to swim with me." Charles had not moved from his seat.

It was not what Erik had expected - a verdict or commentary or consolation - and so he looked back over one shoulder, enough to see. Charles sprawled, a lazy tension in his limbs. A restful predator, Erik thought, hungry for a meal that required patient hunting. Charles tracked the shiver that moved up Erik's arms. Perhaps that was enough sign of Charles's judgment; perhaps Charles's return was enough sign. "I swim well enough." The skill had saved his life once. "And the water the is cold." It was not well-reasoned even for a token protest; he thought of the playful tangle of seal bodies, the barking and splashing of their play.

Charles gestured, and Erik turned his body back around, faced Charles fully - blue eyes looked at Erik again, from his toes to his hair, grown shaggier than Erik would prefer. Charles's voice was easy and deep with promise, a cave full of treasure. "I will keep you warm." It sounded like a promise.

The words sent a flush over his skin, made Erik blush. He bit back the smile that wanted to answer Charles's words. He knew the old stories: selkie men would charm you; selkie men would please you; selkie men would be your ruin. He thought of the pelt he had found, the thick fur that had, nonetheless, still felt so cool to his fingers. Still, there were worse things than to be ruined. He settled an uncertain hand on his belly, scratched low on his abdomen. One of Charles's eyebrows quirked in interest - and Erik... gave himself permission. It was nothing but a moment, a series of moments. They would be his regardless; he would keep them, and they would keep him warm even if Charles himself did not. He slid his hand lower, raked his fingers through the hair at his groin before resting his fingertips at the base of his cock.

Permission - Charles granted it with the focus of his eyes, the appreciative set of his jaw. Erik touched himself, slow and easy, a new rhythm he had found in his own bed in the middle of the night, one that let him wake up without a yoke of want on his shoulders in the mornings. Fingers loose, Erik thumbed the head of his erection, sighed at the way the sensation made the muscles of his inner thighs clench. He felt exposed to Charles's view; he felt the heightened tension of Charles's appreciation.

The first time, there had been no deliberation once their initial negotiations were agreed upon and concluded. It had felt inevitable, as though making Charles cry out had been the only possible conclusion to their time together. But now Erik was less certain, less in control of... anything, really. Charles had known what Erik wanted; more, Charles had known what Erik _needed_. Erik considered everything he knew, everything he had seen, everything he had been given. And then he stepped forward, his hands at his sides.

Charles tilted his head at Erik's approach. His eyes grew large when Erik did not stop, instead sprawled next to him. Erik rubbed their legs together, skin against skin, and ran teasing fingers over Charles's ribs. A bark of laughter, and Charles was squirming, rolling them together, his own fingers seeking sensitive places.

They tumbled; Charles was smaller but his strength was fluid and bending. Erik's hand skated and skidded along supple flesh, unable to keep a firm grip when Charles did not wish to be held. They tussled; Erik responded, adapted, used his weight and minded his own instincts to lash out with painful intent. It was only pretend, a game: no need to hurt his opponent. They rolled; the warmed rock of the fireplace hearth brought them to a stop. Erik held his weight on his hands, kept Charles caged with the lines of his arms and his legs. His elbows felt tight, like creaky old gates reluctant to open. The two men shared the same air, Erik gasping through something that might have been laughter if he had allowed it to escape his throat.

But Charles pushed at his shoulders and Erik moved back to let the man do as he pleased. Anything, he had said. Yes, he had said. Charles's bidding - whatever it was, Erik was willing. He stayed as still as a rabbit aware of a bird circling above when Charles placed a small hand on his side and shifted out from under Erik's mass. The hand moved, trailed from Erik's side to his back, felt the tense and pull of the long muscles there. "Stay."

Their play had been a reprieve from everything Erik feared; his joints were unlocked from it, easy in their movement. Charles... seemed through with playing. He nibbled at the skin he could reach, and then stood. Erik watched Charles's feet; they were small, like his hands, with bones and veins that Erik could nearly see through the delicate skin spanning the arches. The curiosity almost moved Erik from his held position; he wondered if Charles's toes were like his fingers, the same almost-webbing like tissue connecting each digit. Another time, he thought. Another time and he would bend down, kiss each toe and feel the spring of Charles's heel.

A fog moved into and through his mind, a thrum in his blood that made Erik still and calm though his heart raced like fish before a boat. Charles bid him remain still; Erik would remain still. He heard them both breathing, quiet inhalations that seemed loud in his ears, steady and dependable.

It was the glide of Charles's hand from Erik's hip to the small of his back that made Erik squeeze his eyes closed, the lights behind his eyelids brighter than the fire. Charles walked his fingers, all of them in a crawl, up Erik's spine to the nape of his neck. The tiny hairs there stood up, a shiver ran down; but Erik stayed still, as he'd been bid. And Charles draped himself over Erik's back to bite and nuzzle at the curve of neck and shoulder.

"Do you have more of your lubrication?" The question came with a sharper bite lower down, an illustrative thrust where Charles was hard and pressing against the back of Erik's thigh.

"In the bedroom." He would, Erik thought through a haze that cushioned him, have to start keeping it by the fire.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have left comments! This has never been abandoned; it just took me a little while to figure a few things out.

"Wait for me here." Charles licked at the bite - it stung and Erik wondered if Charles had broken the skin. "On your back." The selkie man let his weight rest against Erik like a kiss, and then the gravity of his body was gone; Charles stood up and turn, with his unsteady gait to the bedroom.

Erik fell to his side and rolled over, cushioned his head on his arm. Anything, he'd said. He'd meant it. But his chest tightened at the sound of Charles's returning footsteps.

Charles dropped to his knees at the edge of the rug, crawled forward until he could collapse beside Erik. He dropped the tube of lubricant between them. Erik flinched back from it and Charles cocked his head to one side. He nudged the lubricant with one finger. “You insisted on it before.”

He had – Erik swallowed, nodded. Charles shimmied his body, pushed and prodded until his feet rubbed along the back of Erik’s calves, his chin butted at Erik’s collarbones. “Make us slippery.”

His hand shook, a faint tremor like oak leaves in the wind, when he reached for the tube. He breathed in, took the sea-salt smell of Charles’s hair, the wild sandy scent of Charles’s ear lobes, for his own air. Erik would do Charles’s bidding on this night, for these long moments. His hand was steady as he opened the lubricant, squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. He reached behind himself, thought it would be an easier angle – but Charles’s hand on the back of his neck stopped him. 

“No.” Charles reached, tugged, guided Erik’s hand until he was slicking both of their cocks. They slid against each other and Erik understood. He flushed, unsure and embarrassed. Perhaps Charles didn’t want him that way. Perhaps he had misunderstood in more than one way. 

It was difficult, though, to believe that when Charles thrust and slipped, prodded and nudged until they were moving against each other in a regular rhythm. Charles opened and closed his deep water eyes, blinked slow and satisfied when he found the right pressure, just the right motion.

And Erik gasped, groaned, tried to muffle his voice against Charles’s neck. It was the regular movement of clockworks, the tension of finely machined parts, the precision of fitted gears. Erik worked with metal, with machines that did as his hands bade them in repairs. But with Charles, under the selkie’s strange cool hands, Erik was the machine.

It was fast again, fast enough that Erik flushed red with the speed of it just as much as he flushed from the heat and friction between their two bodies. He wanted, with a sudden rush of longing, to have Charles in his bed, to have some permission to be slow and methodical, to have the chance of learning Charles piece by part. 

For that sort of schooling, Erik would need a larger bed. But he didn’t have the breath to curse his own aescetism – he had spent all his gasped lungfuls of it on Charles’s name, spilling it out as he came against Charles’s skin. 

Erik calmed, enough to register the way Charles shuddered against him, enough to watch the way Charles squeezed his eyes and tossed his head back. 

If it was all he ever had, Erik thought, it would be enough. Still, as Charles shifted against him, smearing semen across their bellies and thighs, as Charles reached to rub his smell into the skin of Erik’s chest, Erik suspected he would not be satisfied. He would always want this. His hunger for it would keep him company on the long dark nights, would sit in his boat beside him until his days spun out, an empty spool trailing behind him.


End file.
